The Story of Remus
by colour me perfect
Summary: Remus Lupin's life was not a love story. If the pages were bound together in a book the writing would be in almost illegible scrawls; secrets scribbled along the margins — the things that he could never quite bring himself to say. And then they'd get to the end of the book, and it would all be her. ONE SHOT


Remus Lupin's life was not a love story. If the pages were bound together in a book the writing would be in almost illegible scrawls; secrets scribbled along the margins — the things that he could never quite bring himself to say. The cover would show a brooding boy; one with a look about his face that said that he was indescribably lonely; a look that he swore that no one else could see. Maybe his mum would be there. His father. Maybe James and Sirius. Maybe his face would transform as he saw them, would light up and he'd smile for a change. People would look at it and think that it wasn't a sad story, but after the first few chapters they'd realise that they'd been deceived.

And then they'd get to the end of the book, and it would all be her. All be crossed out scrawls of _I can't do it_ and _I'll destroy her; I'm a werwolf_ and _I'm dangerous. _Maybe he'd write about what colour her hair was that day. Whether it matched her eyes. Maybe the words she'd spat out at him — the whispered looks he'd given her when he swore she was unaware. When his hand had brushed against hers and she'd caught his eye, and the blush on his cheeks when he'd looked away.

There'd be jealousy, of course, about the handsome Aurors that she could quite possibly be dating. There would be things that he would never be proud of — giant writing in capital letters ranting about how she deserved them and how they'd get married. There'd be those small, barely legible scribbles of self-doubt, the _I don't deserve her _and then _I'll never be enough. _They'd be crossed out after a few weeks of staring at them relentlessly, because he wouldn't stop thinking them and she would begin to notice.

He'd write about kissing her. Realising that she felt the same way. The absolute joy in his heart when she said the words. Marrying her. Holding her hand. The fear in finding out that she was pregnant. The self loathing and the terror he'd felt when his son was born. The relief at finding that he was not a monster — not like his daddy, no, but like the woman he'd fallen in love with.

How things had felt perfect.

No, his story was not a love story. But damn it… it had almost ended like one.

Because he was holding her hand. Holding her hand and feeling like he was touching everything that she'd touched: his son, his cheek, his heart. And there was that knowledge that he was going to die, that there would be nothing else after this except blackness and yet it didn't seem like the worst part of his life. Didn't quite feel like the end, because while it was the end of Remus Lupin, the man he'd become had only been recent.

He looked at her. Her hair was dark for a change — something she'd always tried to do for their son, and she was staring up at the sky. He wondered idly if she was dead. He couldn't feel the warmth of her fingers, but he couldn't find it in him to cry. Because any moment holding her hand was a dear one. Far more joyful than most of his other moments — those moments filled with despair and loneliness. Even in death she didn't let go. It meant more to him than it should have.

He thought of his son. Thought of how she'd insisted on his middle name being Remus, though he'd argued that being Remus was something that nobody would want to be. But in death he didn't think that anymore. He was rather glad, in fact.

No, Remus Lupin's life was not a love story — it was a story of love. A story of how he'd loved dearly but never felt it in return, a story of how his heart had been mangled and bruised but he'd handed it out anyway. It was a story of misery. Heartbreak. Self hatred, loathing, regret.

But looking at her, he could see nothing else but the ending. So maybe he'd rewrite it some day.

* * *

If you opened Remus Lupin's book the start would be scribbled out completely. He didn't need it — he really didn't, because no one needed to know the misery and the loneliness, the self-loathing and the despair. They just needed to know what he knew in that moment — that despite of it not being a love story, he was loved. Dearly.

And God, if he could he'd open it and read it again.

* * *

**A/N unedited because creys. This was heavily inspired by feels after reading the Pottermore update. It was a bit of a spur of the moment thing. Now brb dying because Remus.**

_Cover image found on Google so credit goes to whoever made it. _


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